Read Online The Revenant Road by Michael Boatman - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Boatman
Tags: Horror
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black pinstriped suit and a slouchy fedora.
“Alright, boys,” he snarled. “Here’s where the coon gets plugged.”
Twin runners of blood streamed from his eyes as he picked up the revolver and aimed it at my face.
“You alright, Obadiah?”
I blinked. Kowalski, the real Kowalski, was staring at me, his concern evident.
“Sorry,” I said.
“This was my old man’s gun,” Kowalski continued.
“Single action Colt .45; my father could blow the balls off a scared chickenhawk at high noon with this piece. That was his talent and the Service put it to good use.”
Kowalski sighed. Then he put the gun back into the box.
“But Marcus Grudge was born to the Road. It ran though him thicker than his own blood. He could spot Nosferatu even when they were illusion–casting. Your old man was damn near psychic himself.”
“Illusion-casting,” I said. I had to keep Kowalski talking. As long he was talking he wasn’t shooting: Talking=Good, Shooting= Very Bad.
Kowalski nodded.
“You said my father was ‘born to the Road?’ What road?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“But you said…”
“I said hold yer goddamn water.”
Despite my overactive imagination and the unease that was building a small condo in the pit of my stomach, I had to bite the insides of both cheeks: Kowalski was beginning to piss me off.
“My old man was only a second-generation monster hunter. Your line goes back farther. Marcus once told me that his father, his father’s father, his father and on back through slavery, back to a tribal shaman in Senegal maybe: They were all monster hunters.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Don’t you think hunting vampires might be a little difficult when you’re hiding from the KKK?”
“Monsters come different to different people, smart-guy,” Kowalski said. “Some of ‘em even manage to keep up with the times.”
“But you’re talking about my family ,” I sputtered. “They were regular guys, working men. My grandpa Phil shuffled mail at the Post Office, for God’s sake.”
Kowalski shrugged. “What do you really know about your father’s people?”
I stood up. My heart was beginning to pound and I suddenly needed to move.
“Well,” I began. “There was grandpa Phil...Philip. His father’s name was Herbert. He moved to New Orleans after he left my great-grandmother in Atlanta . He...”
I paused, distracted by a flash of memory.
“He was only thirty-five when he... ”
“When he what?” Kowalski said.
“When he died . ”
“How did he die?”
“ I don’t know, alright ?” I snapped. “But who the hell knows how their great-grandparents died? That doesn’t mean he lived a double life.”
Kowalski drained his cream soda and tossed the empty can over his shoulder without looking. The can flipped end-over-end and landed in the blue New York Recycles bin by the back door.
“The life of a monster hunter is a hard one,” he said. “It’s lonely and filled with secrets. The things we hunt are also hunting us. Sometimes the bad guys turn one of us to their side. Satin Jack’s defection was a big feather in Vulpe’s cap.”
Kowlaski cracked his knuckles one by one, his eyes as hard as bits of gray flint.
“Jack Slocum betrayed a dozen hunters before I found him and put him down.”
“You mean you killed him,” I said. “That’s what we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Killing human beings?”
“I freed him,” Kowalski said. “If the Pale claims me for one of its own, the best thing you can do is bust a cap through my cabeza double-quick. Same goes for any other hunter. I did Slocum a favor.”
I lost the staring contest.
“That’s why you know dick about your father’s people,” Kowalski said. “Sometimes the Pale strikes at us through our loved ones. Family ties, relationships become liabilities. My marriage turned to shit the day I got my Walking papers.
“Marcus didn’t want that kind of life for
“Alright, boys,” he snarled. “Here’s where the coon gets plugged.”
Twin runners of blood streamed from his eyes as he picked up the revolver and aimed it at my face.
“You alright, Obadiah?”
I blinked. Kowalski, the real Kowalski, was staring at me, his concern evident.
“Sorry,” I said.
“This was my old man’s gun,” Kowalski continued.
“Single action Colt .45; my father could blow the balls off a scared chickenhawk at high noon with this piece. That was his talent and the Service put it to good use.”
Kowalski sighed. Then he put the gun back into the box.
“But Marcus Grudge was born to the Road. It ran though him thicker than his own blood. He could spot Nosferatu even when they were illusion–casting. Your old man was damn near psychic himself.”
“Illusion-casting,” I said. I had to keep Kowalski talking. As long he was talking he wasn’t shooting: Talking=Good, Shooting= Very Bad.
Kowalski nodded.
“You said my father was ‘born to the Road?’ What road?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“But you said…”
“I said hold yer goddamn water.”
Despite my overactive imagination and the unease that was building a small condo in the pit of my stomach, I had to bite the insides of both cheeks: Kowalski was beginning to piss me off.
“My old man was only a second-generation monster hunter. Your line goes back farther. Marcus once told me that his father, his father’s father, his father and on back through slavery, back to a tribal shaman in Senegal maybe: They were all monster hunters.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Don’t you think hunting vampires might be a little difficult when you’re hiding from the KKK?”
“Monsters come different to different people, smart-guy,” Kowalski said. “Some of ‘em even manage to keep up with the times.”
“But you’re talking about my family ,” I sputtered. “They were regular guys, working men. My grandpa Phil shuffled mail at the Post Office, for God’s sake.”
Kowalski shrugged. “What do you really know about your father’s people?”
I stood up. My heart was beginning to pound and I suddenly needed to move.
“Well,” I began. “There was grandpa Phil...Philip. His father’s name was Herbert. He moved to New Orleans after he left my great-grandmother in Atlanta . He...”
I paused, distracted by a flash of memory.
“He was only thirty-five when he... ”
“When he what?” Kowalski said.
“When he died . ”
“How did he die?”
“ I don’t know, alright ?” I snapped. “But who the hell knows how their great-grandparents died? That doesn’t mean he lived a double life.”
Kowalski drained his cream soda and tossed the empty can over his shoulder without looking. The can flipped end-over-end and landed in the blue New York Recycles bin by the back door.
“The life of a monster hunter is a hard one,” he said. “It’s lonely and filled with secrets. The things we hunt are also hunting us. Sometimes the bad guys turn one of us to their side. Satin Jack’s defection was a big feather in Vulpe’s cap.”
Kowlaski cracked his knuckles one by one, his eyes as hard as bits of gray flint.
“Jack Slocum betrayed a dozen hunters before I found him and put him down.”
“You mean you killed him,” I said. “That’s what we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Killing human beings?”
“I freed him,” Kowalski said. “If the Pale claims me for one of its own, the best thing you can do is bust a cap through my cabeza double-quick. Same goes for any other hunter. I did Slocum a favor.”
I lost the staring contest.
“That’s why you know dick about your father’s people,” Kowalski said. “Sometimes the Pale strikes at us through our loved ones. Family ties, relationships become liabilities. My marriage turned to shit the day I got my Walking papers.
“Marcus didn’t want that kind of life for
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